Change is inevitable. There's no escaping it. In fact, we can actually rely on it as surely as we can trust that the sun will rise tomorrow. And, I'd probably go as far to say that most change is good. Most, of course, is not all. There are those changes that occur that we cannot seem to stop – those that don't really fit the definition 'for the good.'
If you recall, I previously shared that in spite of my slender arms, my triceps flap like a billowing flag when I either wave a hearty hello or enthusiastically season my food. I'm in my 40s – it's just the way it is.
Here's another horrifying tidbit of mid-40s self-discovery. First, you should know that my bathroom is a room chock full of reflective surfaces – between the mirrored closet doors, the giant vanity mirror and the glass enclosed shower stall, it is nearly impossible to be in that space and not see yourself everywhere you look. So, the other day I'm getting dressed for a hike and, for whatever reason, after dispensing with my PJs, the first thing I put on was my socks – from a standing position. (I don't know why.) As I bent over to put the sock on my foot, my reflection caught my eye. And, as if being bombarded by the multi-faceted images in a Fun House Hall of Mirrors, I had nowhere to look to avoid seeing this shocking brush with reality – Elsie the Borden cow was all I could think of. When the heck did this happen? UGH! I immediately put on my bra. Then my T-shirt. Then the fleece.
Okay, so there's apparently an unavoidable toll that gravity takes on the body. What's next? I'm almost afraid to ask, wrinkles? So far, I've been pretty lucky with that one.
What I haven't been spared of, however, is waking up in the night to use the bathroom – at least once, often twice, sometimes three times in a night. Is this part of the aging process, too? If so, it certainly would account for all the crotchety curmudgeons out there. Apparently, after a certain age, a good night's sleep is a thing of the past. A thing of the past like toned arms and perky boobs, I suppose.
There is something else, though, about the bathroom experience as we age. Has anyone else begun to notice a change in… well, in… velocity? Seriously, this latest development could easily be parlayed into a game show – albeit a disgusting game show, but a game show all the same. It could be called something like The Speed of Your Stream or How Slow is Your Flow? In it, people of all ages would enter a bank of bathroom stalls, sit and, after a buzzer sounds, commence urinating. The contestant, placed on the opposite side of a partition – similar to The Dating Game, would have to guess the participant's ages by – you can see this coming, right? – by the speed of the stream: fast and furious = teenager (male, likely); smooth and steady = your average adult; trickling tinkle = senior citizen. See? What? You don't think this would take off? It could.
It's not really any worse than those sadomasochistic, esteem-eradicating carnival Guess Your Age & Weight games. In those you're on public display while some dorky guy in a red and white striped vest tries, by assessing your physical appearance, to guess your age and weight. He looks around, picks out some poor unsuspecting victim, then, after asking for a name, he addresses the crowd. "Well, folks, whad'ya think? I'd say Karen, here, is around 42 years old and about a buck fifty. Let's see, shall we?" Goaded by the mob around her, Karen begrudgingly steps on the scale saying, "I'm 26, jackass," when the needle redlines, at which point, the smarmy barker yells out, "Owhhh, Karen – 220! Here's a Twinkie, thanks for playing." Okay, maybe my little pee game is worse. I've digressed.
See, there are just some things we cannot escape as we age; but here's something unexpected that's happening to me that I never really heard anyone talk about before. Lately, when I hear of an issue that strikes a chord in me, or of something that tickles my fancy (tickles my fancy? How old am I? Wait, let me…), I've begun to write in to people – radio hosts, magazine editors, newspaper columnists. I don't know why; I never used to do things like this – and, honestly, I don't really have the time for it – but I'm 44 now and I'm beginning to think that, perhaps, this is just another step in the aging process – one taken on the way to becoming a cantankerous, golden girl who will invariably complain about the cost of a gallon of milk or the continually rising cost of a postage stamp. I wonder how long it will be before I start to write my local politician about similarly inane bits of personal interest. At what age does that happen?
I wonder what other changes I have to look forward to. Who knows? I guess I'll just have to wait and find out – time will tell!
- M
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